


be tormented by me, babe

by safeandsound13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Agents, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cops, Detective!Bellamy, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Love/Hate, Pining, Undercover, Unresolved Tension, a little kissing to remain our cover, asshole!bellamy, detective!clarke, idk guys just roll with it i guess??, its basically both i didnt REALLY think the background throught THAT well, overachiever!clarke, police officer!bellamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 02:59:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6936538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To be honest, he's always had a thing for Clarke. But he was doing the whole 'being an asshole to not come across as a lovestruck puppy' thing, and she took it the wrong way when he hit on her at the office's christmas mixer so then it naturally evolved into 'being an actual asshole because she's being an entitled bitch' and well. It escalated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	be tormented by me, babe

**Author's Note:**

> i'm cleaning out my half-finished fic folder so this is JUST A LIL SOMETHING SOMETHING i started working on like five mohs ago and never finished because i'm a problematic trash can THE MORE YOU KNOW
> 
> but guys...bellarke is real and COMING FO RUS I GOTAT BLAST
> 
> song in the title is E-MO-TION by the actual iconic kween carly rae jepsen

.

“ **You’re a mess, I confess, I despise you in the best kind of way.”**  
**― COCO J. GINGER, OR JAHA, PROBABLY**

.

To be honest, he's always had a thing for Clarke. But he was doing the whole 'being an asshole to not come across as a lovestruck puppy' thing, and she took it the wrong way when he hit on her at the office's christmas mixer so then it naturally evolved into 'being an actual asshole because she's being an entitled bitch' and well. It escalated.

He accidentally forgot to fill the coffee pot after drinking the last of it (and _everyone_ knows Clarke Griffin cannot function before 10 am unless she has a serious dose of caffeine), she ate his favorite jam-filled donut (on purpose), he got her kicked off a case ("it's a conflict of interest because Griffin made out with the suspect Anya once, in high school, the better part of a decade ago, and I'm being petty but technically right") and she got him suspended ("because I'm one hundred thousand bet-my-life-on-it percent sure Bellamy did not hear any screaming before kicking in the lethal perp's door and now the dick can file a complaint and the entire case will be ruined").

He still has thing for her, but now it's more _want to fuck her until she's begging for mercy_ than _hold her hand and tell her she's pretty_ thing.

Captain Jaha puts them on a case together, eventually, when he runs out of detectives and excuses and has absolutely no other choice. Apparently creeps hitting on underage children peek during christmas or something, there's probably some sort of pseudo-psychological reasoning behind it but he doesn't care, it's going to be fucked up no matter how you spin it. He hates Christmas for obvious reasons (mother died on Christmas eve; little sister punched him in the nose when she found out he lied about Santa; capitalist commercialism), and well, Clarke doesn't ' _do vacations_ ', for like, career purposes or whatever boring reason. He's ninety-eight percent sure she wouldn't know what fun was, even if it hit her in the face with a surprising amount of force for an eight year old and told her she ruined _Christmas for everyone on this goddamn earth_.

It doesn't help he hates cases like this, sitting in a room on his hands and trying to lure fucking pedophiles out in the open by playing _nice_ and laughing at their jokes. It makes his skin crawl just thinking about it.

She's already set up in one of the interrogation rooms that Jaha so kindly offered to lock them up in, when he enters with a few files perched under his arm. Of course perfect princess Clarke is already there-she's _always_ trying to prove something. Must be exhausting.

He's impressed at how well she's able to hide her disdain for him when she notices his arrival, exchanging somewhat civil nods. She's wearing her usual pantsuit, a white chiffon blouse with a black feather print tucked into it. Her hair's up in a messy bun, and he _hates_ it when her hair's up, because he always ends up staring at her neck, like some sort of lovesick creep.

He slides a hot chocolate over to her, because he's like, trying to be the bigger person here, and she looks at him warily, like she thinks he poisoned it or mixed it with laxatives. He rolls his eyes and she accepts it, muttering an almost indecipherable thank you.

"I set up a username for us it's, uhh," he pauses, skipping over the fake pleasantries, as he licks his lips absentmindedly, pulling a piece of paper out of his back pocket. "TeenGirl14."

His logic had been pretty solid. If you were being a fucking perv, you were going to be a fucking perv no matter what username.

"You had to look that one up? Seriously?" She raises her eyebrows at him, crossing her arms over her chest and he tries not to notice how great it makes her breasts look. He's totally an adult. "Could you be any more obvious?"

He rolls his eyes, because he's casual, looking down at his note. "The password's Bellamy1. Capital B."

She huffs, jaw clenching like she's about to yell at him for it, but then she just shakes her head to herself instead. "Ground rules: no dominant behaviour or trying to hog this case, we're in this _together_ , and we'll take turns picking what to eat every meal."

"Establishing sexual preferences and food. A woman after my dreams."

She looks insulted, blinking at him, and for a second he thinks she's actually going to argue she's not a submissive just for the sake of not letting him get away with it when she settles on straightening her blazer, cracking her neck by moving it from side to side as she exhales loudly. It's a Christmas miracle. He's just _a little_ disappointed she's not yelling at him.

"Let's just…" She inhales sharply, pursing her lips. "Get to work, mhm?"

" _Mhm_ , princess."

They're technically also working together with Monty, who they borrowed from their cyber crimes unit, and he sets them up on some lugubrious, obscene underground forums, but eventually opts to install his tracking devices a room over as to ' _not disturb their working process_ '.

He smiles a little uncomfortable smile when he says it though, and Bellamy knows that's code for ' _being able to text my boyfriend_ and _hunt down some criminals without having to listen to you two bicker all night_ '.

 **ponies12** (at 08:23pm): _HIIIII. did any1 c last night's ep of teen wolf? scott:(_

 **TeenGirl14** (at 08:24pm): _hey. i missed it. totally bummed:(_

 **ashlee_love** (at 08:24pm): _noooooooooooo Scott! I was SOOOOO sad. I think I cried for like three hours, lol_

 **steverogersbutt** (at 08:25pm): _but stiles tho!_

 **flower-FLOWER** (at 08:26pm): _WHO cares about sTiLeS when scott LITERALLY died? i'm an emo wreck?_

 **ponies12** (at 08:26pm): _IKR I'M STILL RECOVERING_

 **amc239483** (at 08:26pm): OMG Lydia's hair was on fleek! Her fashion is always on fire but this episode it was on point, ! I'd netflix and chill with her anyday of the week, LOL :) #totalgirlcrush

"That one," he says, pointing at a name on the screen. "' _She'_ seems way more invested in teenage girl hair than ' _she'_ should be and is using a conspicuous amount of 'cool slang'." He air quotes, slurping on his milkshake as Clarke sends him a leery look, but starts up a one on one conversation anyway.

It's been three hours since they started, and he really wants to make some progress and catch at least one, at this point not even caring who makes the bust, him or her. The suspected perv makes a joke and Bellamy types in something along the lines of _like haha like omg like lol xD like really_ , and Clarke narrows her eyes dangerously. "Have you ever even _met_ a fourteen year old girl?"

Joke's on her because he raised one, but he feels like that passes too much into personal territory and he's not interested in revealing any weaknesses to someone who's number one career goal is to take him down.

She makes a show out of moving the keyboard over to her side of the desk, and pushes up her sleeves as she gets to work. She actually does a much better job than him, talking some shit about how she's insecure and thinks nobody understands her, not even her parents, blah blah blah-the important part is that they eat it up like candy. Candy that's he's IRL going to knock their teeth out with whenever he gets the chance.

They become so good at it, that one of them even ends up offering them money. Granted, it makes him nauseous and very bloodthirsty, but also, that kind of I-know-you're-gonna-rot-in-hell- _satisfied_. He resists telling him to enjoy his next five lifetimes in prison, because he just one-upped his own charges to child prostitution. Mainly because Clarke catches his hand reaching out for the keyboard and slaps it away, but also because he knows better.

Eleven hours in, his decisions become even less rational and more erratic and he's suddenly talking without ever giving his mouth permission to move. He could probably blame it on post-successful-arrest bliss.

"We make a pretty good team," he mentions distractedly as he writes down another date in the special arrest calendar Clarke made especially for this case. "To be honest I kind of expected you to sit here and correct my grammar the entire night, or kill me."

She doesn't look up from the computer, but she stiffens, and he catches her muttering, "The night's still young."

He snorts. "I don't think that'd look good for your mom's campaign. _Arcadian senator's daughter murders police agent_. That guy Jackson would have a stroke." (He googled her mom _once_. It was to find more ammunition, not because he was interested or anything. It's not like he kept a diary to rave about his feelings about Clarke, because he didn't have either of those.)

She's still keeping up the whole ' _being polite because I'm super civil and my mother fed me with a diamond spoon when I was a baby_ ' act, tight smile on her lips, but her fingers slam down on the keys a little bit harsher than necessary. "I don't live my life for my mother."

If they were friends, or even just _friendly_ , and this was just some harmless teasing, he'd have the good sense to stop right there. She's obviously sensitive about the 'smells like nepotism' reputation she's been dragging along since day one, and he's should be able to empathize with that because he used to have a reputation, too, but he kind of has this vague idea about what's a healthy display of emotions and what would expose him as a weak, possibly insane, underdeveloped human being—so he's mostly just a total dipshit about everything. To sum up: leopard, spots; he smirks.

"Sure." It's not sarcastic per se, because he's too casual and cool for sarcasm, but there's definitely some skepticism involved. "Clarke _Griffin_ has never profited from her mother's career."

She cracks her neck, teeth gritted together as she informs him, voice steady and stern, "You're such a fucking asshole, Blake."

He rolls his eyes, tapping his fingers idly on the table. "And here I thought we were getting along." Okay, now, _that_ was sarcasm.

"Leave the thinking to people with actual brains."

He feigns actual pain as he presses a hand to his heart. "Ouch, Clarke, I'm going to tell on you."

The skin on her neck is getting red and splotchy, her eyes hard and he knows better than to defy her. He doesn't hate himself _that_ much. "Just shut up."

He's a little late to the briefing in Jaha's office the next morning, because it's morning and he doesn't do (well with) rules and punctuality, and finds Clarke with her back to him, Thelonious smiling (with teeth) at her as she talks.

He thinks touching her's okay. He touches a lot of people casually, it's his thing and they did just spend sixteen hours together making the world a considerably better place, plus he didn't want to startle her. He didn't tiptoe in there to cause her an heart-attack, he's actually pretty sure Jaha looked over at him at least two wasn't being a dick, or trying to fuck with her.

Except for some reason, she takes his hand on her shoulder and, in some elaborate self-defense tackling move, slams him down on the ground and breaking, probably, at least twelve bones, his liver and any small sliver of ego he had left.

"Muscle memory?" She offers lamely, grimacing down at him as she shrugs half-heartedly. He doesn't know what hurts more—the actual bodily harm, or the eyes of the entire station witnessing the whole ordeal.

He winces, putting his head back down on the floor after a futile attempt at getting up. "I can't feel my legs."

"Oh my," Jaha says, rubbing his temples, muttering, " _sometimes we need to lose the small battles inorder to win the war_ ," he nods to himself, slowly and then more confidently as he presses down the button of his intercom repeatedly. "Murphy, can you heat up some of my herbal tea? Bring in my massager while you're at it."

They make twenty-seven arrests in the following three days (a new record) but Jaha is reluctant (deadset) putting them on a case together (on it never happening again) after that.

* * *

Jaha decides a _buffer_ is all that is needed for him to pair them up again. A buffer being at least five other agents. Vice is about to make the biggest cocaine bust of the century and they need some extra personnel to make sure it all goes as planned.

("Look at it from the bright side," he tells them, giddy, fingers pressed together in front of him in a triangle formation. The smile on Clarke face's is so uncomfortable he almost feels sorry for her.

He opens his arm, spreading them wide, a look of wonder on his face. "This is another _day_ , another op-por-tune-i-ty to enhance your social relationship with one another and build a bond based on mutual love and respect for each other. The greatest masterpieces were once only pigments on a palette, after all."

What the fuck is he even on?)

Raven is their officer in charge and she's _actually_ smirking at him when she hands out the assignments. Damn, he hates her. He's going to kick her ass so hard at Gina's bar whenever he gets the slightest of chances.

"Blake, Griffin, couple having lunch on the pier. Lots of handholding and heart eyes. Try not to use your loud voice while you pronounce your eternal love to each other."

Well, it isn't the worst thing in the world. He could be pretending to give out free bibles like Murphy while wearing a monk's robe and a big obscene gold cross (he loves Raven so much and will buy her a drink as soon as possible), or pretend he's _really_ interested in 'that flyer hanging on that one pole' like Miller. He just has to sit across from her in silence and sometimes pretend he likes being around her.

It goes okay, for a while. They don't really talk, he just holds her sweaty, soft hand and they pretend to sit in a relaxing silence while they stare out at the sea. He's thinking of Raven's voice when she said, " _This is a big deal for me, Blake. I've been trailing Mountain man's ass for eight months. Don't fuck this up for me, okay? Please._ " and her big scary vulnerable brown eyes when she'd said it, during most of it, which pretty much keeps him grounded and from opening his mouth to say something offensive.

"Raven told me last time someone got close to arresting him, he blew up an entire mall," Clarke tells him through her teeth, blinding smile on her face as a cover, because the only kind of small talk they do is about work.

He casually looks over at Carl Emerson, alias Mountain Man—who's impatiently looking at his watch—clenching his jaw a little. "Yeah, almost forty people died. Most of them children." Her head snaps up, looking a little surprised when he turns back to her and he squeezes her hand, instead of actually rolling his eyes. "I did my research."

"You think he might do it again if he suspects anything?" She's still looking at him, but he can't make himself look back at her when they're pressed together this close. That would be literal torture. Bad for his blood pressure and all.

"It's possible," he answers honestly, thoughts trailing off. From what he read Mountain Man had no moral obligations against killing others if it meant saving his own ass. The guy look like any other basic white guy, friendly enough, nothing giving away he intentionally murdered so many people—this is exactly why he has trust issues.

"You thinking about someone special, Blake?" She's smirking, so yes, he takes a tiny bit of pleasure in the way her face falls when he mentions, "My little sister, she turned sixteen last week."

She's met her once or twice, at an office party or at Raven's whenever Octavia wasn't doing the whole ' _Bell, it's really embarrassing that I'm your only friend and I'm_ sixteen _now so you don't have to take me_ everywhere'. He doesn't even know if Clarke knows the entire story, or just bits and pieces, or maybe nothing at all. (Octavia does know everything about Clarke, because it's Octavia and she likes him to suffer.)

He doesn't know why he says what he says next, because it's not like she'd understand. Clarke is the epitome of growing up privileged, always had a roof above her head and food to fill her stomach. "If he blows us up, she'll have to go into foster care. Again."

"So let's prevent that from happening," she nods, determined, and he remembers why he liked her back then, always brave and stubborn and ready to kill a man if necessary. "Together." He must look at her funny, or a little too long because she clears her throat and diverts her eyes. "With the rest of the team."

"Right," he answers, lamely, and his cheeks feel warm, because what is he _supposed_ to say? It's almost as if they were having a moment, or something stupid like that.

She's about to say something else when both of their comms start cracking loudly, "...Reyes for Blake and Griffin. Can you try and get to his seven?"

Clarke subtly nods before he can, pulling on his hand until he gets the hint and stands up. "Let's go for a stroll, shall we?" She nods, her grip on his hand tightening as she leans into him.

They end up finding a pretty great spot close to the railing overlooking the sea, where they have Lieutenant Dickweed in perfect view. He's so busy looking casual he bumps into Clarke, and she glares, rubbing her arm.

Raven's voice cracks over the comm. "Murphy, stop fighting with that Jehovah's witness, you're drawing too much attention. Griffin, try to look less like you want to kill Blake and more like you finally believe in love again, he's eyeing you two."

She sighs, muttering, "Okay. Let's do this." She places her arms around his neck, heat creeping up his spine as he follows her lead, resting his hands on her waist.

"Oh, Clarke. I love you so much," he deadpans, and she digs her nails into his skin in response, smile painfully bright.

"...don't alarm Mountain Man before he's made the drop. He's about to make the drop, I repeat he's about to make the drop." Listening to Raven go off on these comms feels like watching a really intense football game. "Shit. We might've just been made."

Emerson suddenly makes eye-contact with Clarke, and she's so taken off guard that she just blink back at him for a moment. Bellamy turns them slightly so he can see what's happening, the target's fingers reaching for the gun strapped to his hip. This is all or nothing. This is Raven having his balls for breakfasts or doing something he's one hundred percent going to regret later.

Clarke starts shaking her head, barely noticeable, but he knows her by now and he knows what she's thinking. She apparently knows him, too, because she tells him, lowly, "If you're thinking about kissing me to maintain our cover—"

He kisses her. She can share his balls with Raven in the morning, but for now, she'll have to deal. He's kissing her.

"I'm going to punch you in the fucking dick," she murmurs against his lips, heated, finishing her earlier sentence, but her hand is in his hair, the other low on his back, as if she's pulling him closer. He isn't complaining, per se, but he thought she hated him with the passion of a thousand burning suns.

Suddenly (and very abruptly) she pushes him off, slapping him in the face (hard) and making sure to the draw the attention of basically everyone in a 500 feet radius. Including Mountain Man and his little helpers.

She raises her eyebrows at him, her face out of view from their target, sending him a challenging look. He's so confused, it actually comes across really well and very realistically and he swears he sees a hint of pity flash across Emerson's face as his hand moves away from his firearm.

"I can't believe you," she yells, then grabs his shoulders, kneeing him in the crotch. He doubles over in pain, and she leans closer, smirking as she whispers, "I did try to warn you, you know." Then, louder: "I can taste her on your lips! You cheated on me again, didn't you?"

The more attention it draws, the better, right? Makes it more believable. A cop would never voluntarily draw that much attention. It's actually a pretty good plan.

Right, he should probably like, try and defend himself or something. It's what they do in the movies and he has no other experience. He doesn't cheat. He's a dick, but he's not that kind of dick.

"Babe, I didn't—" He starts, but she cuts him off, pushing him away from her. "You fucking asshole," she spits, and he looks at her, the fire in his eyes, and he thinks he'd believe her in a second, if he wasn't on to her plan, "I don't ever want to see you again."

She storms off, Emerson watching her as Miller approaches him from behind, tackling him to the ground, Raven yelling " _GO, GO, GO_ " through the comm system as she rushes over to read him his ' _fucking Miranda Rights, Carl'_.

The rest of them make a move to go arrest his Mountain Minions, and he gets in an intense physical quarrel with the one he recognizes as Lovejoy from the pictures in Emerson's file.

He finds Clarke later, in the cleverly disguised 'REYES' MECHANIC SHOP: WE FIX CARS AND STUFF' satellite van, sipping on a coffee and finishing off a conversation with Murphy. He starts bandaging a cut on his hand, catching the last of their conversation. "I don't get why you had to powerplay the Jehovah Witness when you don't even care about Christianity."

"I don't no, but he was being a smug prick and I couldn't just let him win."

"Well played," he tells her, after Murphy disappears back outside, and she takes the bandage from him and redoes the entire thing, because she's Clarke.

She shrugs, "You're lucky. Last time I actually spit in my partner's face." She grins, "For emphasis."

He raises his eyebrows, leaning back against the desk as he watches her carefully wrap the cut. It's not too bad, and the bleeding has mostly stopped, but it's deep enough that he's probably going to need stitches which he won't get because he's stubborn and he hasn't liked hospitals since his mom died.

"Wasn't your last assigned partner Woods? Didn't you two date?"

"Yep," she says, her grin widening. "To be fair, we're good friends now and I regret doing it. A little. But back then, God she deserved it."

"So what you're saying is that I should thank you for kneeing me in the crotch instead of smearing your bodily fluids on my face?" Let's not mention the fact my tongue was in your mouth a minute before that, either.

"Yep. You're welcome." She finishes up, cutting off the remaining cloth and attaching it together with some tape as she moves to the cut on his face, carefully examining it. She's so close he can smell her perfume, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks as her eyes linger on his lips a second too long. He winces as she applies more pressure to his cheek and quickly looks away, taking out a small white adhesive to keep the edges of the wound together. She clears her throat, but when she speaks she sounds hoarser than usual. "You're probably going to need stitches."

"I know, thanks, but I'll survive," he says, patting her on the shoulder because that's how he shows affection with everyone. She shouldn't be any different.

She gives him that look, one of her Clarke looks that makes him want to give in. Part of him shuts down, makes his chest tight because he doesn't like talking about his past or his feelings or himself, but something about her makes him want to tell her, tell her everything. He doesn't like feeling that way, vulnerable and out there, like he's about to expose himself on some sort of highly emotional level, so he tries to like her a little less because of it and he's in this vicious circle of questioning himself and his feelings for Clarke and then just being a complete idiot because he doesn't want her to notice his internal conflict.

He manages to keep it mild, for now. "You know, I think we deserve a drink."

For a second it looks like she's going to fight him on it, but then she takes a deep breath and shakes it off. She nods, final, hiding a small smile and he thinks that he'd really like to kiss her again, "I think we deserve more than one."

* * *

They still don't get along, him and Clarke, not completely, but she's a good cop and he'd trust her with his life. They're just too different, and there's too much they never talked about. He can accept that.

They're put on a case together, a lame one with no leads that he's ninety percent sure is going to end up nowhere, and when he complains to Jaha about the lack of action, he barely manages to break away from his meditation (it hardly seems fair that the average man has to pay taxes for this) before informing him, "Enjoy the little things, Bell-a-my. Someday you might wake up and look back to they were the big things." Clarke almost choked on her donut, coughing away a laugh as he glared at her.

He's getting pretty tired of him constantly quoting those basic decorative signs that people hang in their bathrooms, but he guesses spending more time with Clarke wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. He just wishes it was something more exciting than a 'possible money-laundering scheme at an ice cream store'. It's a typical rich white people crime that doesn't particularly annoy him nor does it particularly not annoy him.

So there they are, at a damn ice cream shop, about to question an innocent employee about whether or not they're pretending to sell hypothetical ice cream that they're not actually selling in order to cover up-okay. He doesn't actually care that much.

"I'm Detective Blake, this is Detective Griffin, we're here to ask a few questions," he informs the man behind the counter. He has a good few inches on Bellamy, sporting long brown locks and a strong beard. His nametag reads Roan. Bellamy's still putting away his badge as Clarke starts up standard questioning, "Is it correct—"

The guy suddenly throws whatever he was working on cleaning at their heads, making a move for the back door. Okay, so maybe he wasn't as innocent as he'd first assumed.

Clarke wipes some red food dye from her face as she nods towards the front door, already on her way there, "You follow him and I'll call for back-up and try to cut him off."

It's a solid plan really, he thinks as he jumps over the counter and turns the corner into a back alley, only for a gun shots to be fired at him. Real solid.

"Shit," he mutters, throwing himself behind a few carton boxes for cover. He slowly peeks over the edge, to find no one there. Quietly, he gets up from behind the boxes, rushing over to a trash bin a few feet over and press his back against. When he tries to make a move for the next object big enough to cover his body, another gunshot rings and he barely manages to avoid it before he's fired at again. A wild Clarke appears, shooting back at him, but he doesn't budge.

Bellamy aims at his shoulder and fires a shot, hitting him in the arm. Roan yelps, but doesn't miss his next shot.

Bellamy feels a sharp pain in his leg, traveling all the way up to his spine. "Fuck," he yells, leaning against the nearest wall, almost stumbling over his own feet before sinking down on the ground. Roan comes closer, raising his gun with his hand, blood dripping down his arm. He closes his eyes and hears another shot, and when he checks to see if he isn't dead, Clarke appears back into his view and he can make out Roan's body on the floor.

"Bellamy," he hears her cry out as he tries to catch his breath. His vision is a little blurry and there's so. much. _blood_. She kneels down next to him, immediately pressing her hands down on his leg as she considers the damage. She calls for an ambulance and then pleads, "Bellamy. Are you okay? Bellamy?"

Her hair is covered in red food dye, and she looks like she's about to cry, and her eyes are so pretty and blue and ever since he kissed her for the first time he can't think about anything else, hell, ever since he saw her for the first time he's been—he's probably in shock, _definitely_ in pain, possibly in love with his partner.

So. It's a want to 'fuck her until she's begging for mercy' _and_ 'hold her hand and tell her she's pretty thing'. He can't really help it.

"Shit," she curses, pressing down harder, as she narrows her eyes, "Shit. I really, really like you."

He laughs, weak because he's sweaty and in pain, and a warm feeling is blooming in his chest, which might be a bad sign, since he just got shot. "That's a bad thing?"

"Yes," she responds, heated, a watery smile on her face, looking at him like she's about to kick his ass, "because you told Miller you couldn't believe I had a girlfriend and it ruined me for you, you fucking homophobe."

"Miller's gay," he says, dumbfounded, because he can't really think straight now and this seems the easiest way to explain it. "If I was a homophobe, which I'm not, do you really think I would go to him, a guy who could most definitely kick my ass with two broken arms and hooked to a ventilator, to complain about my shitty anti-human thoughts?"

"Then why—" she starts, but she pauses, and something seems to click in her head as her eyes soften. " _Now_ I get why Raven wouldn't stop telling me you had a thing for me. I thought you just had lesbian thing and were trying to live out a threesome kink."

That sounds like something that only happens in porn. He inhales sharply as she moves her hand, breathes out a shaky, "the fuck." Besides the pain, he's feeling surprisingly okay.

She looks up at him, chest still heaving from adrenaline. And it suddenly feels dumb, to admit their feelings like this, like they're in the middle of some stupid romcom. She hesitates, licks her lips, then asks, " _Miller_ 's gay?"

"Yeah," he struggles, leaning his head back against the wall, not being able to hide his smirk, "he's breaking stereotypes _and_ dating monty from cyber."

"Nice," she says, absentmindedly as she takes his hand and tells him where to apply pressure while she starts working on ripping off a piece of cloth from her blouse. She laughs, dry, almost humourless, as she ties it around his leg to stop blood flow to his leg. "I was feeling like such an asshole for liking you when you were probably writing nasty comments under equal marriage posts and ritually burning rainbow flags in your garden."

It dawns on him, and he grimaces dreadfully. He totally got her off a case for kissing a girl a million years ago. It was petty and out of spite and he was such a dick. "Oh god, and the Anya thing."

"Yeah, the Anya thing," she admits softly as she covers his hands with one of hers, to make sure he's _applying pressure_ the right way, because she's Clarke and he's kind of in love with her. She's not looking at him when she says, "I thought you were punishing me or something."

"I was. For my donut. Which was kind of dramatic, I now realize."

"Only now?" She deadpans, and he's an idiot. There's a faint smile on her face as she uses her free hand to brush away some of his curls from his sweaty skin. "I was doing doing the whole kill 'em with kindness thing and just ended up really hating myself for liking you."

"I just assumed you thought you were too good for me or something," he confesses, truthfully, voice trailing off. His head starting to feel light and Clarke's face starting to become blurry and it would be really nice to just.. close his eyes… and go to sleep for a while.

"Bellamy, you've lost a lot of blood and you're probably going to lose consciousness soon, okay?" She tells him, voice steady, but her hand trembles when she puts it on his neck.

He nods, or at least he thinks he does, because Clarke shakes his shoulder, repeating his name. "Okay," he forces out, voice hoarse. This is really not how he imagined telling her how he felt. He frowns, trying to pry his eyes open, but it doesn't work. It's funny, because he feels like he's about to die but all he wants to do is make her feel better. "Just don't… Don't. Take credit for this, this dick's arrest. We did it… Did it to-together."

"I won't. Together, I promise," she tells him, her thumb on his jaw, a smile in her voice. "If you promise not to die."

He tries to smile himself, but he doesn't know if it's working, and when he tries to tell her he won't, everything turns black.

* * *

He wakes up in an unfamiliar room, which he figures is either a really eerily sterile version of the afterlife, or it is the hospital. His head's pounding and his leg's throbbing, but it feels really good to be breathing. He blinks a few times to get adjusted to the light, when he feels someone squeeze his hand.

He turns his head to see who, and then softly, she says, "Hi." Her eyes are a little watery, her hand clammy in his. "You're awake."

"Hey," he smiles, small, lazy before he closes his eyes again; his entire body feels heavy and he needs a minute to readjust. He was shot and he almost died and Clarke's here. Clarke.

"Apparently our ice cream man was holding his mother captive in one of his freezers," she declares, her thumb moving over the back of his hand, and he grins sleepily.

"Creepy," he mumbles, and he peaks through one eye carefully to find Clarke smiling back, big and bright and stupid. "He's still being operated on, but they think he'll make it."

"So what you're saying is that you're a crappy shot?"

She rolls her eyes, making a show of throwing his hand out of her hold, crossing her arms over her chest. "I should've left you to bleed out."

He chuckles a little, only to grimace in pain after he does, and she huffs, obviously pleased by his anguish. He reaches his hand out to her, waving her over. She agrees after a long second, sitting down on the edge of his bed until he pulls her into his chest. She wraps her arms around his waist in response, resting her head in the crook of his neck.

"Don't do that again," she mumbles against his skin, softly, and it's not really a question, so he doesn't answer it. "You might be a total ass half the time, but." She pauses, adjusting her face so she can look at him. "I don't want to lose you."

"I swear to God if you say the department doesn't want to lose me either I'm going to—" she snorts, then leans up and kisses him. One hand clutching his shoulder, nails digging in, other hand on his neck, pulling him closer. It takes him a second to respond, but when he does. _God_.

Bellamy's kissed a fair amount of girls in his life—some good, some bad, some great—but he's not kissed anyone else beside her since he kissed for the first time, thinking it would be the last and only time. Now that hopes are high that this might start happening a lot, he doesn't really ever want to kiss anyone else again.

It's just kissing but—it's not just kissing. It's feeling, the slide of her mouth and his, her body pressing against his, and warmth, so much warmth.

"We should stop," she mutters against his lips, eyes still closed, before leaning back in to press her lips against his. It obviously goes on longer than Clarke intended, and he pulls her closer, not talking until they run out of breath and he really has to. "Give me one good reason."

She smiles, wide and happy, and he loves her probably, but he can't tell her. Not now, anyway. Maybe in a little while, when he's ready. She pecks him on the mouth one more time before promptly getting off the bed, brushing herself off.

"You were just shot and lost about half of your blood for one," she points out, brows hiked. His hands twitch on top his blanket, but he resists reaching out to pull her her back in as soon as she says the words, "Also, I called your sister and she could be here any second now."

He groans, throwing his head back onto his pillow. "I take it back. I've never liked you."

"Worst girlfriend ever," she smirks, a little evil, a little _pretty fucking great_ and he returns the sentiment. She says it so casually that he doesn't really give himself the time to doubt her. "Cute, Griffin."

She laughs, challenging and light, and this time he does reach out to pull her back into his side, tugging her underneath his arm. It's about as PG-13 as it gets, so Octavia can deal with it. He can always pull the 'I almost died' card, because he's a good person like that.

He presses a kiss to the crown of her head, grinning against her hair because he can't just stop. "For the record, I _would_ be into watching you kiss another girl. The lesbian thing can totally be my kink."

She snorts, dry, patting his good leg softly. "For the record, I already regret this."

"Well, I'm a total ass half the time but you can't los—" She elbows him in the stomach, hard, and he chokes on his laugh. He's glad he's able to joke about his own emotional shortcomings, total progress. Without any real heat, she hisses, "Shut up."

He squeezes her side. "So bossy."

" _Bellamy_."

She looks up at him, eyes narrowed but crinkled at the edges, and he smirks, because he knows for sure that'll piss her off.

"Clarke."

(It's safe to say Octavia walks out on them as quickly as she walked in, but not before they watch her pull her phone from her pocket, pressing it against her ear as she backtracks the hell away from them. "Raven? It's me. You owe me fifty bucks.")

.

**fin.**


End file.
